Exits and Entrances
by SyrenHug
Summary: Poetry in motion. Slash/ Femslash. All pairings.
1. Chapter 1

Momo/Ryoma.

Style: Freestyle.

An analysis of body.

Best read out loud.

* * *

_Whole Body, I Breathe_

Some days Momo doesn't breathe air.

He breathes a tiny body. A body that's blood flows with gold. Aspirations and expectations so high they can't be tied-

Down.

Hands that grip, never slip. Fingers that stay still.

"Ryoma, if you will, stay still."

Feet that jump, jump, jump.

Toes that wiggle. "Stop, senpai. That tickles."

Shoulders that sag. Drag from the lifting, shifting of time. "When you get older you'll just leave me behind."

Knees that bend into serves. They curve into legs that tend to-

Tend to try to fly. "You're going to reach the sky."

Ankles that brush against his spine. A rush of lies disguised as kin. "Say, hush, again."

A back that stretches, presses, into him until they are fine. Because they are fine.

A stomach that rumbles for burgers, Ponta. For a rub, for release. "Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease."

Momo says thank you. For a neck that he can suck, nip, bite.

Write. "Write my name. You do know how to spell, right?"

Head, cheeks, throat. Bobs. Hollows. Constricts. Fix me. Make it better.

A nose that crinkles. "Is that what your wearing?" And that's caring. Criticism in able to improve.

Ears that hear but never really hear. Fear. You can't make it better if it's already the best.

Lashes that thicken. Casting, hooking, catching the part of him that was always unresponsive.

"He's unresponsive."

Hair that can be tugged but only if you want to die.

A mouth that thins into lines of Algebra. How do you get X over there if you can't move Y? Undo it. Undo mistreatment, condescension. Take it apart until it can't be put back together.

Eyes that are a Utopia. The way the world could be, would see, is inside. "Don't stop looking."

He won't.

A heart. A heart. A heart that beats too fast. Speaks too slow. Did you know-

A voice raises. It is puzzled. "Momo-senpai?"

Arms around him don't loosen. He tightens his grip on his bicycle handles. Breathes cinnamon and early morning.

"Nothing." He smiles. But it isn't.


	2. Fire And Ice

Fuji/Ryoma.

Style: Pantoum.

Ryoma doesn't believe it's just a passing feeling.

* * *

_Reflection_

They say it's the thrill.

An adrenaline rush of touch.

But you don't even have to speak, move, play, feel, me.

Just look with the ocean in your eyes and be.

* * *

An adrenaline rush of touch.

The smile that could shatter.

Just look with the ocean in your eyes and be.

Just be something to see.

* * *

The smile that could shatter.

But you don't even have to speak, move, play, feel, me.

Just be something to see.

* * *

They say it's the thrill.


	3. Travel

Atobe/Ryoma.

Style: Free.

The words in parentheses where supposed to be strike through, but, obviously that was a no go.

Ryoma realizes his worth.

Warnings: Pleasure-partner angst.

* * *

_Spanish Inquisition_

Loving someone who can't (won't) love you back is everything.

Torture on your skin and in your mind. The way it feels to slam your hand in a car door five times.

(Except on your heart.)

Torture because you are breathing everyday and different way so you can be different in hopes that this person that you are tearing the stitches of a wound out for will see you _different. _

(But it's the same.)

And then he says one day, with an arm around your shoulders and a firm fist on your heart, "Let's have sex."

It's beautifully ugly. You have taken the wrong turn down the right lane. This is what you wanted, hoped, sought for.

(But not really.)

"Ryoma." He inhales your name. But he exhales it and you've lost because doesn't he know, _hasn't he figured out by now_, that you are still holding your breath for him?

Torture because this isn't you. You are strong, uncaring, undefeated. You are Ryoma.

But he is Keigo. And for some reason that's all that matters.

(Does it matter?)

There is only so long you can go being someone's toy. You wake up older then your body, rustier then the bars of your cage. Screaming hurt under your skin. Speaking fierce words. "I can't keep doing this."

He laughs. "What are you talking about? There isn't anything to stop because there isn't anything to keep doing."

You realize you don't deserve this torture. This has been pulling you from the inside out and you're bleeding out dreams and love so hard. So hard it's hate.

Hate that used to be love is torture too. Because it has to work too much, too swift, to exist.

(It was never meant to be in the first place.)

So you play words like you used to play tag, Hide- and-Seek, Red Rover, Dodge ball. You end remembering that it's just a game. "You're right."

(It never meant anything.)


	4. If Wishes Were Horses

Anybody/general.

Style: Free.

Just understand, don't forget.

* * *

_Fractions_

He's so afraid.

There are people who live in fractions. Half speaking, half meaning, half loving, teasing, smoking, knowing. Half choking-

Soaking in the way their supposed to live.

"But, don't you get it? You're supposed to _live_."


	5. Crystallized

Sakuno/OF (That means _female_, alright?)C. I love Delia, ugh.

Style: Free/ story-like.

The essence of beauty is like glass. A reflection of the outside but not the inside.

This is set in one of my head canon original story worlds where everyone lives in the ways of the Victorian era with wholly modern ideals. The basic languages are English, French, Spanish and Japanese. A lot of the rest have died out.

And, as you'll find out in another story, homosexuality is seen as a normality.

* * *

_Glass Hearts_

I used to think I could be beautiful but then you said, "No."

And I smiled a little and muttered, "Oh."

I wrapped myself in beautiful things and people and songs in hopes that all of it would rub off on me. But you still yelled, "Try harder."

So I did. I built words into buildings so people could see. I stretched into music so I could be that melody inside the keys. I scratched my insides out and stuffed new ones in. Shiny, pink, unmarred. There were faces that put their hand on my shoulder and tried to tell me something different.

"You are beautiful the way you are. "

I laughed. "Beautiful isn't the first try. It's work. Blood, sweat and tears."

And they held me like I needed to be comforted. Told me stories of not changing. Of rising above society's ideas. I didn't understand. They didn't understand. Because if I was already beautiful then how come I couldn't see it? How come when I looked in the mirror all I could see was the body, the soul, the heart, of a nobody?

But I went to you. I asked, "Am I beautiful?"

You just looked at me and I looked at you. There were shadows finding home in the lightness of your eyes. The skin was folding, sagging. You paid for them to inject you with the cure for old age, but it was temporary. Beauty was temporary. You were a stone castle and you were cracking. But you frowned, huffing and puffing my fragile, glass heart down. "What a silly thing to ask."

It didn't answer my question. I faded even as I rose. Laughing louder, smiling wider. Because people thought beautiful was happy, too. Years passed and you got older, the strings of your quilt fraying at the edges. I watched as everyone talked about your death with what looked like restrained excitement. Suddenly, everyone fawned, cooed into my ear about my delightful features.

"You're eyes are so pretty."

"You're hair is so long."

They touched and patted, suffocated me with falseness. But it was nice, in a way. Like living a dream for a little while because you knew it wasn't going to last.

My next birthday party was a big affair. Men stifled me with compliments to my face while rubbing their hands together under the table. Because I had money and money was beautiful. Everyone said so. After an hour of it I snuck away into the music room. It was dusty. I touched the piano gingerly.

"Do you play?" I looked up. There was a girl with long, fine, blonde hair. Her figure was full and curvy. I knew of her. She was always laughing with a gentleman who never left her side unless forced to. She moved closer to me. Her pendant necklace jingled against her chest elegantly.

"I can. Though, not very well."

She seemed to wave me away. Her voice was liltingly accented. "Who cares? As long as you _can_ do something, why does it matter if you can do it best?"

I stared at her. It slipped out of her throat so easy. I always choked on things like that. Turning back to the piano, I played. Tentatively, at first. But then I was picking up where I had left off. Music was a continuous, ever going kind of thing. It never stopped, even when you thought the last note had rung. When I stopped I felt an overwhelming need to catch the air with my hands.

"That was _magnifique_." The girl was smiling like she'd just seen the sun come up for the first time. Her eyes were grey, so grey I wondered if it they were smoke contained.

"Arigato." I flushed, both from the compliment and the slip into my family's native tongue. "I'm sorry; I don't know your name."

"Delia." She smiled, her dimples flashing charmingly. It wasn't surprising. Everything about her seemed to glow, an effervescent light that none of us could ever hope to attain. I looked away from the brightness.

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Of course it is."

I turned to her, startled at her tone, but she was chuckling. Oh. Was this teasing? Biting my lip uncertainly, I rose from the chair. "I should go. It is my party."

"Wait." I stared at her. She was smiling at me again. Friendly and comforting. "We should be friends."

But I was so ignorant of personal human interactions. What was friendship? I accepted, though, and hoped.

We reached farther then friendship. Maybe we bumped against it at one point in our days of talking and walking in the garden. But everything about her made me ache. She was honest and unfailingly loyal. She pointed the stars in my direction. She danced me into her pages even without my knowledge of the steps.

Delia brushed my hair and kissed my lips at night. She didn't tell me stories or lies. She told me the future of all of us if we could open our eyes and grasp it. Not enough to stifle, but enough to nurture. I watched her in her sleep and I marveled at her existence. Love was beautiful.

"You're so gorgeous." I'd supply, stroking her milky skin with my fingers. "Why do you want me?"

She'd sigh underneath my touch and laugh. But not at all mockingly. As if she was trying to understand why I even had to ask. "Because your one of those rare creatures who can't see how lovely they are. J'adore vous montrer."

And you. You were falling into the hole of Wonderland. Death was ugly, wasn't it? I sat on the bed while you were waiting for the darkness and watched. You struggled, heaving for breath. Your eyes were wide open, though. Staring at me.

You said, "I bet you'll laugh when I die, girl."

"Of course I won't. That's awful. I'll miss you. Won't you miss me?"

Your mouth worked furiously but you didn't answer. So I spoke, peering out of the window across from the bed as the sun started to set. "You know, I've always wondered if you hated me. But now I wonder if maybe the reason we think one way is because no one ever told us differently. No one ever showed us wrong. Did anyone ever tell you that they loved you? Did they never tell you how beautiful you were, how beautiful you are?"

I hunched my shoulders. "I think you are. Beautiful, I mean. And I love you. I won't laugh when you're gone. I'll cry. But I'll learn better. I'll tell my children how much they matter so they'll never forget."

You were crying, then. The tears were leaking out of your hazy eyes and I reached over and held your withered hand in my smooth one. Your eye lids fluttered closed. The panting stopped. You stopped. The fingers in mine relaxed.

I bent over and turned to the door where Delia stood with her eyes shining and her hand held to grip mine.

The sun greeted another day.

* * *

Magnifique- Magnificent.

J'adore vous montrer - I adore showing you.

Did you realize that the "you" was Sakuno's grandmother?


End file.
